


When The Laughter Stops

by dustbunnyprophet



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Major Character Injury, Manipulation, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 05:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11177904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbunnyprophet/pseuds/dustbunnyprophet
Summary: He had to break free. He wanted his life back, and above it all he wanted Yuri, his Yuri. But he had to break free.A Pliroy fic





	When The Laughter Stops

The morning was a quiet one. The freshly resurfaced ice was shining in the pale winter sunlight which streamed through the large windows of the rink. Jean was lacing his skates on the bench, watching Yuri unclip his skate-guards and step on the ice. After all these years Jean could not get tired of watching the lean figure of his boyfriend glide across the rink, limbs moving with a delicacy that belied the fire inside him. Yuri was a beautiful mixture of contradictions which mixed like dissonant notes only to create a melody which Jean wished he were able to capture into music. But it was impossible to grasp the whole of Yuri, the endless facets of his personality, the contrast between the softness of his green eyes and the cold edge they could grow in the span of a second, the tender whispers against Jean’s skin and the snarls, thick with venom and anger. 

Yuri was unique, perfect in all his imperfections. And Jean’s heart beated a fast thrum inside his chest when he thought about how lucky he was. 

He must have been grinning stupidly because his boyfriend eyed him with confusion, and a tinge of annoyance in the curve of his mouth.

“What the fuck is taking you so long, idiot?” he snarled, but there was no heat in his voice, only a fond annoyance which made Jean’s grin widen.

“I’ve been admiring you, princess.” he retorted with a wink. Yuri rolled his eyes, but the small dusting of blush on his cheeks was unmistakeable.

He finished lacing his skates and made his way towards the ice, snapping his guards off in a quick motion before gliding towards his boyfriend. He circled him slowly, sliding a hand to Yuri’s hip and drawing him closer. He made to capture his lips in a kiss, but a sudden flash of mischief in Yuri’s eyes was the only warning he got before the blond sped away from him, skating across the rink with a smirk on his face. 

Jean chuckled, throwing himself into the chase. He was faster than Yuri, but the blond kept evading his grasp, throwing his body in a cantilever when Jean’s fingers came to close to grasping him, or suddenly changing direction. Jean was grinning, feeling his body tingle with the excitement of the chase, and the exertion of speeding across the rink before a proper warm up. 

Yuri’s lips were pulled in a mischievous smile that made Jean’s heart skip a beat. There was a childish glee in his motions that was so at odds with his usual angry demeanour. It was a precious sight, and Jean wanted it to last forever. Because nothing compared to it. Nothing was more beautiful than Yuri, happy and lighthearted. 

He must have stopped at some point without realising it. Because a moment later Yuri was skating in his direction, a softer look on his face which mirrored perfectly the breathlessness Jean was feeling. His hand rose to Yuri’s cheek, cupping it gently, and those green eyes locked with his. There was still excitement glowing in them, and he could feel the curve of his lips under his thumb. 

“I love you.” he whispered, the words just tumbling out of him with ease, and Yuri’s eyes grew more intense. His lips connected with his, but only for a heartbeat.

“I love you too.” Yuri said against his mouth “My idiot.”

And Jean chuckled, like he always did, before the mirth got drowned in the feeling of Yuri’s lips against his own. A hand gripped his shoulder, and Jean could feel the hard surface of Yuri’s chest flush against his own, as they slotted in the most natural of embraces. He kissed him and it was perfect like every kiss, like every touch, like every moment he had spent with Yuri in the past three years.

He loved him. So much. And he wanted him there, forever, every day, every morning, every night. He wanted Yuri by his side. He wanted to see him grow old and grey, and grumpier with the onset of age. He wanted to have a family with him. He wanted to see Yuri’s eyes grow soft when they gazed at their children. He wanted Yuri. He wanted him even if it meant spending the rest of their days living in Jean’s Montreal apartment, skating, bickering, laughing, baking poutine pirozhki and holding onto each other.

It was something which had been on his mind for a while now. And the words  _ Marry me  _ kept lingering on the tip of his tongue. Yuri would call him an idiot for procrastinating, because what was there to be afraid of? What was stopping him from expressing just how much he loved Yuri?

But Jean knew the answer to those questions, and it was the same one which had made him hesitate three years ago at Worlds in Boston when everything had started.

Isabella.

He had proposed to her in the heat of the moment, and it was a move it had not taken him long to regret. Not when his dreams had been filled with golden hair and angry green eyes, instead of her smile.  Jean didn’t want to make the same mistake twice. He was  _ not  _ going to hurt Yuri the way he had hurt her. His best friend, his first girlfriend, the one he still struggled to look in the eye, even after all these years. 

He sighed, and something about his demeanour must have clued Yuri in, because he didn’t say anything, tucking his head in the crook of Jean’s neck and just embracing him.

Jean pressed a kiss against his soft angel hair, and then grinned mischievously. In a sudden move he gripped Yuri’s hips and lifted him, eliciting a startled shriek from the latter. He laughed, spinning them clumsily.

“This is a shitty lift.” Yuri protested “At least do it properly, you idiot.”

“I didn’t know you wanted to start pair skating,  _ ma princesse _ .” he teased, skating backwards while Yuri wriggled in his arms. His lips were curled in a displeased grimace, but Jean could see his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Grinning, at Yuri he spread his legs and leaned back into a crouch, adjusting his grip on Yuri’s waist. His boyfriend was quick on the uptake, gripping Jean’s hips for support while he extended his legs into the air. He could feel the tickle of Yuri’s hair on his mouth as he leaned his head against his shoulder. 

Jean had just adjusted his hands to support Yuri’s taut stomach when the door to the rink suddenly slammed open, and he lost his balance.

Yuri rolled on the ice, getting back to his feet on reflex, and looking at his boyfriend who was sprawled and working his way to an upright position as well. Yuri lent him a hand before  pivoting on the spot and looking towards the entrance, to see who the fuck had nearly had them breaking their necks. 

By the rink entrance stood an unfamiliar girl, looking bewildered. Her dark eyes were wide, and her hands were in front of her mouth in clear shock. What the fuck? Jean was quicker to gather his wits back, and he skated towards the barrier calling out a 

“Hello? Can we help you?” how his boyfriend managed to be so fucking polite was beside him, but it was surely better than the  _ Who the fuck are you? _ which was on the tip of his tongue.

The girl kept looking at them, growing paler and paler by the minute. She was not going to fucking faint, was she? Her face was sheet white against her dark hair, and she  _ did  _ in fact look like she may be on the verge of passing out. Jean must have noticed too because he was stepping off the ice and quickly clipping on his skate guards. Yuri followed him, unsure at what to do.

“Are you okay?” Jean was asking the girl, his eyebrows knitted in a worried frown. As he got closer to her, her eyes grew wider, and her face paled even further. A second later her eyes rolled inside her skull and she was crumbling down, Jean’s quick reflexes catching her before she dropped down on the floor.

“What the fuck?” Yuri breathed, stepping off the ice and walking towards them. Jean deposited gently on the bench nearby, checking her pulse “Should I call a fucking ambulance or something?”

Jean shook his head

“I think she’s coming back.” he replied, relief dripping into his voice, then with a choked laugh he added “She’s not the first to swoon at the sight of King JJ!” 

“Shut up, moron.” Yuri grumbled with an eye roll, even though he could feel a chuckle shake his chest. 

Suddenly the girl on the bench opened her eyes, blinking twice, before she jumped up. 

“Hey, not so fast!” Jean told her, catching her shoulders “You’re gonna get dizzy.”

Her eyes were even wider than before, and there was a violent flush blooming on her cheeks. And Yuri pushed down the annoyance that rose naturally at the sight. She was JJ’s fan, there was no fucking doubt about that, he thought flatly. 

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, no longer caring about being fucking polite. Jean glanced at him with a knowing look, but Yuri didn’t care if his instinctive jealousy was obvious as fuck. He was not good at sharing. And Jean was  _ his.  _ It was petty, but Yuri couldn’t care less.

His tone must have shaken the girl out of whatever fucking stupor she was in, because she suddenly found her voice.

“I’m Yukiko.” she said in an irritating high-pitched voice “Yukiko Leroy.”

 

Jean had met many fans during his career. And some of them had been peculiar in their actions, especially Yuri’s fangirls. There had been several occasions in which Yuri Angels had claimed to be his boyfriend’s long lost sisters or cousins. And while he had never had to deal with that kind of deranged behaviour from JJ fans, the first thing he thought when the girl introduced herself as Yukiko Leroy was to think she was just one of them.

However, the girl fished through her purse a moment later, fishing out an US ID card which clearly stated her name was Yukiko Leroy. Jean blinked, looking from the card to the girl. Black hair in a bob cut and dark eyes, stark in contrast to her pale complexion. Her makeup gave an illusion of Asian features, but a closer look revealed her to be as caucasian as they came. And yet she had a Japanese name, in fact the same one as the Katsuki-Nikiforov child. 

Yuri must have made the same connections as him, because he was glaring at the girl with renewed intensity. Her name sounded so fake, and yet her ID card looked genuine. Frowning, Jean handed it back to her, clearing his throat, and unsure at what to say. 

His boyfriend saved him the trouble snarling.

“Let me guess, you’re what, Jean’s long lost sister?” his voice could have sliced ice, and Jean had half a mind to protect the girl. She had not done anything wrong, so far. And Yuri could be vicious when he wanted to.

But the way she looked at Yuri, with a nasty curl of her lips made his words stick behind his teeth. 

“Why would you care, Plisetsky?” she rebutted, snarling his surname “And no, I’m not JJ’s  _ sister! _ ” the girl sounded offended Yuri had even insinuated that.

“So you just happen to share my surname?” he asked hopefully, knowing it was all too strange to be a coincidence, but then, stranger things had happened. His relationship with Yuri had been one of them after all, and Jean was far from complaining. 

The girl,  _ Yukiko _ , turned her gaze to him, and her eyes immediately softened. It made unease shiver down his spine. There was an eerie familiarity in the way she looked at him. He swallowed, unconsciously stepping closer to Yuri. He felt fingers clasp his in a tight grip, and he squeezed back.

She noticed the motion, and the warmth vanished from her eyes, replaced by something hard. 

“No, there is no coincidence, JJ.” she replied coldly, glaring at their joint hands. She rose from the bench she was sitting on, coming to stand in front of him. Jean felt Yuri’s grip tighten, and he could only imagine the murderous expression he was wearing. “No coincidence at all.” she said, brown eyes boring into his, dangerously. 

Jean waited for her to speak further, but she just stared for a moment longer, before grabbing her purse and striding out of the rink.

The door slammed on her way out.

 

It had been a week since the Yukiko incident, and Yuri was in Vladivostok for the Nationals, the strange encounter set aside in the wake of competitions. Jean was back in Montreal, training for the Canadian Nationals with Alain, while his mother accompanied Yuri to Russia. It had taken him awhile to get used to the notion of his coaches being also his boyfriend’s parents, but Nathalie and him had clicked very fast. Jean’s mother was a no nonsense woman with a knack for choreography. She knew how to bring out the best in Yuri’s abilities. 

In a way it reminded him of Lilia. But unlike the former ballerina, Nathalie was warm and supportive. She was the kind of coach that pulled Yuri in an unwilling embrace when the pressure became too much and tears sprung at the corners of his eyes. She never mentioned those moments, not even to Jean, but she always held him tight until he calmed down.

The short woman was currently sitting in their shared hotel room, idly scrolling through her tablet. Her copper hair was curled around large hair rollers, while her reading glasses were lodged low on her nose. Yuri flopped down on his bed, groaning at the ache in his hip. He had fallen out of quad Lutz on the short program today, and while he still made it to the first place, there was an ugly bruise forming on his hipbone from where he had harshly connected with the ice before rolling back to his feet. More annoying than the bruise though, was the frustration of being unable to consistently land Jean’s signature jump. 

He shouldn’t have done it. It was supposed to be a quad toe-loop, but Yuri had gone against his coach’s wishes and tried the Lutz. Nathalie had not scolded him the way Yakov would have done, and it made him feel even worse. Because Yuri could deal with yelling, but disappointment cut deep. 

Should he apologise? 

He glanced at the former ice dancer, completely engrossed in her tablet, and wondered if he could be able to do it. Yuri never apologised. Not in words at least. But how could he show Nathalie he had not meant to do anything wrong. It was not disrespect that had made him try the Lutz. It had been nothing but his stubborn pride which did not let him swallow down the fact Jean kept being to only skater who landed ratified quad Lutzes. 

Yuri still outscored his boyfriend at the GPF, but it was fucking difficult. He had needed to backload several jumps to make for the score difference. It was only a matter of time before Jean managed to cross the decimal difference which separated them. And then Yuri would be fucked.

He needed to master the Lutz. Willy nilly...

“Yuri.” Nathalie gasped all of a sudden, and Yuri snapped his eyes to her, ripped away from his thoughts. “Come here.” she told him, not peeling her startled expression from the tablet. 

He jumped to his feet and in a couple of strides he was leaning above her shoulder and looking at the screen. 

His heart stopped.

“What the fuck?” he breathed out, unable to censor himself in front of Jean’s mother, and not really giving a single fuck. Not when he was looking at an article from a respectable newspaper, written by a known journalist and spotting photographic evidence of the  _ impossible _ .

**_JEAN-JACQUES LEROY’S SECRET IS OUT_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Half of the Skating Power Couple secretly married to an American woman. Interview with Yukiko Leroy._ **

It would have been laughable, if it wasn’t for the very high quality photograph of a very genuine looking marriage certificate. Yuri’s head shook in denial, while he read the article, feeling his stomach knot tighter and tighter as an eerily plausible tale was told by the little bitch who had barged into their rink a week before. Plausible, but impossible. Because there was no way on fucking hell Jean was married to  _ her _ .

“This is bullshit!” he snarled, looking at Nathalie, and feeling cold. She nodded, but there was an unsettling pallor to her cheeks. “Nathalie, tell me this is fucking bullshit!” he gripped her shoulders, maybe too harshly, but the chill spread through his limbs and it tasted too much like fear.

“After the GPF in Barcelona, Jean and Isabella took a vacation to the US.” she told him quietly.

“So what?” Yuri snarled “What does it have to do with this?”

“The date on the…” she swallowed looking at Yuri with her green eyes “The date on the  _ marriage  _ certificate fits.”

Yuri blinked. Twice. And again.

“You’re telling me Jean might have married this  _ bitch _ three years ago while on vacation with his ex.” he said slowly, feeling his eyebrows rise towards his hair “Nathalie, he didn’t fucking  _ recognise her!”  _ he shouted, shaking his head “This is bullshit! I’m calling Jean!”

Nathalie didn’t say anything, still startled while Yuri grabbed angrily his phone and dialled Jean’s number. It barely rang once before his boyfriend was picking up.

_ “Yuri!”  _ he said in lieu of a greeting, and there was distress in his voice.

“You didn’t marry that creep.” it was not a question, it was not. There was no way in the fucking universe his boyfriend was married to that fake bitch. No way.

_ “I didn’t.”  _ he replied firmly  _ “I don’t know who she is. I swear it, Yura…” _

“So what the fuck is going on?” he snarled in the phone “Your mother thinks it could be fucking true. Something about you and Yang being on vacation in fucking America at the time.”

_ “Yeah, Izzy and I went to a trip but Yuri I never saw that girl before, you have to believe me!”  _ Jean’s voice was pleading, and it irritated the fuck out of him.

“Of course I fucking believe you, you moron!” he snarled into the phone “But this shit is fishy. And I don’t fucking like it, okay!”

_ “I’ll have dad contact a lawyer.”  _ Jean said, voice calmer now but with an edge of of anxiety to it  _ “It’s slander.” _

Yuri exhaled, nodding.

“Yeah, do that.” he told Jean, then exhaling “This is fucking insane.”

_ “I’m sorry, Yuri.”  _ Jean said softly  _ “You have your free skate tomorrow…” _

“Fuck the free skate. I can do that in my fucking sleep. This is more important!” he snarled into the phone.

_ “Maman disagrees, I’m sure.”  _ Jean told him with a chuckle that sounded wet, and Yuri swallowed down the sudden urge to yell at Jean. He hated seeing him fucking sad. But snarling at him was not going to make this shitty situation better.

“Yeah, whatever.” he muttered “I’ll go now.”

_ “I love you, princess.”  _ Jean whispered into the phone, and the knot inside him eased a notch.

“I love you too, idiot” Yuri replied and then he was disconnecting the call, and looking at the worried face of his coach.

“He said he didn’t marry this bitch.” he told her curtly, and he saw her shoulders sag in relief. She muttered something in French, with a small smile on her lightly wrinkled face.

“You should sleep, Yuri.” she told him, getting back into her usual coach mode, and Yuri resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

Trust Jean to be fucking right.

 

Jean dropped the phone on the bed, heaving a heavy breath. It was early, and he had barely made it back from his morning run when twitter had gone wild, and news of his alleged marriage had made it to the trending topic. His stomach rolled as the waves of apprehension he had been able to manage before, now washed over him. It had been good to talk to Yuri, but for all his boyfriend’s unwavering support Jean could not help feeling the tendrils of dread grip his chest and squeeze, turning his breaths into something shallow. 

He knew he needed to talk to his father. To call a lawyer. To put a stop to this charade before his sponsors started dropping him. But he couldn’t move. His chest felt like it was on fire and the sound of the sudden chime of his phone almost had him jumping off the bed. With a trembling hand he took it, looking at flashing sign of his dwindling battery. 

It was silly, and he was overreacting. But just like it had been in Barcelona, and on several occasions afterwards, there was nothing Jean could do to stop himself from collapsing to his own mind. A voice that sounded very much like Yuri’s berated him needed to breathe. That he could  _ fucking do that much. _ The sudden chuckle almost choked him, but it eased the tension for a heartbeat. Those had been Yuri’s textual words when he had helped him through his episode for the first time. And his candor had been the key in snapping him out of it. It had been grounding. 

Just like then, it helped again. Thinking about Yuri’s down to earth attitude, harsh and direct, and with no room for bullshit. Thinking how Yuri always had an insult on the tip of his tongue, and how it would cut through all pretences, how it always grounded Jean, reminding him that things were usually far more simple than they appeared.

And maybe they were. Maybe all of this situation, preposterous and scandalous as it was, would turn out to be yet another bubble destined to pop suddenly when the pinprick of Yuri’s words hit it. Maybe things were not as dire as they seemed. After all Yuri had no doubt it was all a farce, and that was the opinion which mattered the most.

He did not know what he would do if Yuri had not believed him. Just the thought of losing him made a sharp shiver run down his spine, and his stomach knot in the most painful way. 

But that would not happen. Yuri was vehemently on his side. 

Bit by bit the tension around his chest eased, and breaths started streaming in and out of his lungs without hitches. Jean kept his head buried in his hands for a few more minutes before he righted his spine, and got back to his feet.

He needed to find his father and start cleaning up this mess. 

Jean strode out of his room and down the stairs. His father should be in the kitchen, finishing his breakfast. But when Jean reached the lower floor, the house was eerily silent. Frowning, Jean looked through the rooms, and even in the garage, but their car was there, the engine cold. He tucked his hand into his pocket looking for his phone, only to realise he had left it on his bed. 

Everything was upside down this morning.

With a shake of his head, Jean made his way back to his room, to fetch his phone and call his father. It was odd for him to have left without a word.  _ And  _ on feet. 

Unless he had gone jogging too. While uncommon, his father did sometimes indulge into long morning runs. Especially when the sky was clear like today. Jean had to admit it had been a perfect winter morning to jog. The streets were clean, and the sun was shining with a pale light that warmed just enough not to feel the chill of the sub-zero temperature.

By the time he had reached his bedroom Jean’s worries had been appeased. And he took his phone leisurely, clicking the button to unlock the screen. 

Nothing happened.

He clicked again but the screen remained obstinately black.

Then he remembered how his battery had been close to dying before, and he moved to his bedside table to pick the charger. He plugged it into the socket and into the phone, and waited for his phone to spring to life. 

Nothing.

Frowning deeper he tried to press the button on the side, but his phone showed no signs of life. It was then that he noticed his alarm clock was not working too. Quickly he clicked on the light switch, but apparently the power was off in the whole room. Probably even the whole house, with his luck.

Feeling a strange mixture of annoyance and apprehension which lingered still from his earlier episode, Jean made his way down the stairs once again, and towards the fuse box in the mudroom. He opened the cabinet, looking at the fuses with a frown. Everything appeared to be in order. Did it mean the whole neighbourhood was without power?

Running his fingers through his hair, Jean wondered what to do. His phone was dead, his father was not at home and there was no power. And to add insult to injury it was already half past nine which meant his neighbours were probably already out of home. 

He could take the car and go to his apartment, or at the very least the nearest diner to charge his phone and call his father. But the car was in the garage and the garage door was electric.

It was like a cosmic joke, and he could already picture Yuri’s colourful insults. 

But if Yuri were here, Jean wouldn’t have been sleeping at his parents’ house, so none of this would have been happening. Shaking his head Jean walked to the living room and plopped down on the sofa. There was nothing to do but wait for the power to be back. Or his father to return from his jog, or wherever he was now. 

He lay down, resting his head on one of the throw cushions, but he could not help the uneasy feeling of dread from coiling back under his skin. He knew it was just an aftershock of his anxiety attack, but the overall situation did not help. And it was a struggle to stay calm and rational.

Everything was going to be fine. He just had to wait.

 

It was the longest day of Yuri’s life. The morning after that fucking article had appeared online saw him try to wrangle his way out of a horde of inquisitive reporters who did not give single fuck about his skating and all they wanted to hear was his comment on the Yukikogate, as it had been dubbed. Only the presence of Nathalie by his side had stopped him from insulting the living daylights out of those vultures, and merely tell them “No comment”. 

However winning Nationals, as pleasing as it had been, had meant a panel for journalists, and once again the brunt of the questions had been about his personal life, about Jean, about the alleged marriage, and just as he had replied with the umpteenth no comment a very energetic reporter had asked him to comment the vacation photos which had been posted online, and Yuri had had no fucking clue what she had been talking about. Only after a painstaking press conference, and the quickest escape from the arena he had ever performed had Yuri been able to find out what photographs had the press buzzing about. 

Santorini. Last summer. Jean and him had taken a vacation to Greece in the off season, and it had been the best trip ever, even though he had gotten sunburnt on the first day, and none of them spoke a word of Greek. Yuri looked at the familiar places, the familiar outfits Jean wore. Hell the photos were  _ their  _ vacation photos, the ones he had not wanted to share on instagram because they were too precious, and showing them to the whole world would have cheapened the memories attached to them. Of waking up to the smell of salt and the cawing of seagulls, to the blue sky and even bluer sea which were reflected in Jean’s eyes. Of the silly selfies, and a week spent doing nothing but indulging themselves. 

Yuri clutched his phone in a painfully tight grip while he scrolled down the photos. Down  _ their  _ photos. 

Except Yuri was in none of them. In his stead there was the dark-haired bitch, wearing a summer dress, and clinging to Jean like she belonged there. 

The fucking bitch had photoshopped herself in their private vacation pictures, and Yuri was ready to murder someone.

After he found out how the fuck did she get her paws on them.

 

Jean woke up to a pounding headache, he tried to open his eyes, but it too hurt too much. He closed them again, feeling sleep tug at his consciousness. He knew he should wake up. There was something he had to do, something he was waiting for. But the white noise in his head was too loud, and thinking was too difficult. 

He fell asleep.

 

Yuri checked his phone for the umpteenth time, but Jean had not replied. He resisted the urge to try and call him again. It had been two and a half days since they had talked on the phone, and Yuri was starting to get worried. Nathalie was not faring any better, her attempts at reaching her husband or any of her children, or even the landline in their home had been futile. It was all very strange, and Yuri’s stomach was knotted with worry. 

The only person his coach had been able to reach was her sister who lived in Toronto, but the woman had not heard from any of the Leroys in weeks, which was apparently perfectly normal. The two had conversed in French for a while, but the only relevant information for him was that no one knew what the fuck was going on.

He had no idea how the fuck he had managed to skate his exhibition piece, and the banquet afterwards had been a painful albeit short experience where once again only Nathalie’s calming presence, frayed nerves and all, had managed to keep him in check, and prevent him from snarling at the people who politely inquired about the scandal.

They had a flight in the morning, but Yuri could not sleep, pacing instead up and down the room he shared with his coach. Nathalie was silent, scrolling on her tablet with trembling fingers and no doubt reading the various articles that kept sprouting like mushrooms after a heavy rain. Bullshit was a good fertiliser after all.

He hated being unable to do anything, and worrying about Jean, not knowing if he was alright. Normally he would have scoffed at the idiocy of worrying over nothing, but with the everything which had happened in the past week and some more, Yuri was taut like a string, waiting for the new blow to be dealt.

One thing he was certain of, there was more coming.

His stomach knotted.

 

There was a soft pillow under Jean’s head when he woke, and the smell of freshly made pancakes wafted to his nostrils. He basked in the warmth of the bed, savouring the anticipation of Yuri’s cooking skills. If there was something Yuri was almost better than he was at skating, it was cooking. He was a god on the stove.

Feeling his stomach grumble, Jean opened his eyes, rubbing his knuckles. The sun was shining faintly through their bedroom window, and he yawned, as he dragged himself out of bed. He padded barefoot towards the kitchen, the smell of breakfast growing stronger with each step.

The kitchen door obscured the view, and all Jean could see was the shadow Yuri cast on the floor tiles as he moved by the stove. Jean smiled, silently walking into the kitchen, mischievously ready to startle the blond. His lips were pulled into a wide grin, and was about to embrace him, when a pair of dark eyes stepped from behind the kitchen door, and Jean stopped short.

“Good morning, JJ!” the voice was the same high pitch Jean remembered, and the way she looked at him made shivers ripple across his skin. 

Because he suddenly remembered.

He had fallen asleep in his parents’ living room, waiting for the power to get back. Not in his apartment. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, looking at her in apprehension “What am  _ I  _ doing here? I was at my parents’ house…”

She looked at him with a patient expression, tutting before she sighed.

“JJ, you haven’t seen your parents in weeks.” she told him calmly “You were exhausted yesterday and fell asleep in our bed without getting changed.” then sighing again, but with a shade of annoyance “You know I don’t like it when you sleep in your sweatpants. It’s unsanitary.” 

Jean could do nothing but blink at her, following her gaze to his blue sweatpants. The ones he had been wearing after he got back from his morning run. The ones he had fallen asleep in on his parents’ couch.

Fear was pooling in his gut, and he looked at the girl, the crazy fan who claimed to be his wife, and decided it may be wiser not to argue with her. He had no idea how she had gotten him there, or what she was doing, but his instincts screamed in alarm. It was better to play along. He had no idea what she was capable of.

So, plastering his press grinn, Jean turned to her and said.

“Yeah, of course. I must have been dreaming.” he added a chuckle for good measure, and the girl, Yukiko, he reminded himself, beamed at him.

“You’re so silly, JJ!” she told him with a giggle “Come eat, I made your favourite pancakes.”

Jean did  _ not  _ want to eat anything she might have cooked, but the look she gave him made his blood chill in his veins. So, giving her a hopefully convincing fake smile, he followed her to the dining table, and sat down.

A stack of pancakes was put in front of him, and his favourite brand of maple syrup.She looked expectantly at him, and he swallowed.

“You’re not gonna eat?” he asked her, reasoning that if she did the food could not be drugged. 

“Oh, baby, I already ate.” she told him, with a patronising tut “You know I get up early. There is a lot to do in the house before you wake up.”

Then, to Jean’s horror, she pressed a kiss on the top of his head, before saying.

“Now eat. You don’t want them to get cold, do you?” her black eyes were steely, and Jean could do nothing, but take a pancake with trembling hands and put it on his plate. He took the syrup, dripping it over it, without really paying attention. He hoped she would leave, so he could chuck the food away, but Yukiko kept looking at him with that eerie small smile, and a sharp gaze.

He cut a slice of pancake and put it in his mouth. His lips closed over the fork, the syrup stuck to his tongue, and he forced himself to chew. And swallow. 

Yukiko kept watching.

Another bite. Then another. She did not move an inch until Jean had eaten the whole pancake. Only then did she give him a satisfied nod and retreated back to the kitchen. 

Jean got up from the table as fast and as silently as he could. He padded barefoot to the bathroom, and almost fell on his knees in front of the toilet, before he remembered to turn the shower on first. The sound of the water hitting the bottom of the tub was loud, and Jean prayed it would mask his retching.

He shoved two fingers down his throat, and insisted, until his breakfast was rising back up his gullet, and into the toilet. It tasted horrible, the burn of bile and acid in his throat and mouth more than unpleasant. But he couldn’t take the risk of being drugged.

He couldn’t.

Jean flushed the toilet, and decided to take a shower for the sake of masking his actions. He had not been long under the spray when he started feeling sleepy. He turned the faucet so the jet was freezing cold, but his mind felt fuzzier and fuzzier by the minute. His fingers splayed on the tiles, trying to keep his body upright, but his knees buckled. 

And hit the floor with a painful thud.

The last though had had before everything blacked out was that he had been right. Yukiko had drugged him.

 

Their flight was delayed. Yuri huffed, eager to shout at someone, possibly kickflip them, but there was a snowstorm raging outside the airport, and all flight have been cancelled until the weather calmed down. Nathalie was sitting in the waiting area, gripping her hand luggage so tight her knuckles were becoming white. She was as stressed as he felt, but while Yuri stomped up and down the airport, looking for an outlet for his frustration, Nathalie became more and more silent.

They had barely exchanged words since the night before, and he could tell she was barely managing to keep herself together. He couldn’t even imagine how it must have been for her. Not only Jean was radio silent, but her husband, Mélanie  _ and  _ Tommy were also impossible to reach. She had tried her neighbours, but they had told her their house had appeared to be vacant in the past days, no lights on during the evening. Everyone she had tried calling had not heard from any of the Leroys, and she was eager to get back to Canada as fast as they could and report them missing.

Yuri refused to think that. He could  _ not  _ think that. The idea that something had happened to Jean was too painful to even contemplate. He loved him, he needed him. He wanted him back.

Fuck.

This was all that little bitch’s doing, it had to be. The fake marriage certificate, their  _ photos _ , and now this, the whole Leroy family minus Nathalie missing. It had to be her. It had to fucking be her.

It was frustrating to be unable to do anything, and for a moment he wondered if he should call Beka. His best friend would be able to calm him down. If nothing he was surely going to have a sensible advice to give him. He always did.

Fishing his phone from his pocket, Yuri dialled Beka’s number, and hoped his friend was already awake. It was fucking early in Almaty, but not too early.

A couple of rings and then a hoarse

“Hello?” 

“Beka! Thank fuck!” he said, gripping his phone tightly “I don’t know what to do!”

 

Jean woke up, and his head hurt terribly, like burning rods slicing through his brain and then pushing, shoving, twisting, frying his nerve endings until there was nothing but white, searing pain. He didn’t even try to open his eyes. It fucking hurt.

He tried to rub his temples, but when he moved his hand something stopped him. It felt like fingers gripping his own. And he squirmed, trying to break free of the hold, and rub the pain away. But he was not strong enough. And the pain was only growing in intensity, squeezing his skull. He was unable to think, to do anything, but feel the waves as they crashed over him. Again, and again, and again. 

He didn’t know where, he was, who he was, all he knew was that it hurt. And that sleep was tugging somewhere at the edges of his frayed conscience. 

It only took a heartbeat for Jean to give in.

 

The sky was dark when their plane finally took off. Yuri was looking at the light flakes of snow that kept falling, melting wetly on the window of the plane. They had to fly to Seoul, before they took a flight to Vancouver, and only there would they be boarding the plane for Montreal. It was nineteen hours and some more of flying, provided they did not get delayed again due to the weather. And Yuri was on edge.

The talk with Beka had helped calm down his urge to murder someone, but the helplessness had remained. The only thing he could do was wait. Or wait  _ and  _ read the bullshit people were spewing across the internet, like Nathalie was doing. He knew she was clinging desperately to the hope of finding something out about her family’s whereabouts, but with  _ Yukikogate  _ trending on twitter everyone kept talking thrash about Jean and him, calling Yuri a homewrecker, and a whole load of bullshit that rivalled the disgusting allegations some of his fans had made years ago when he and Jean had gotten together.

Apparently the age of consent being sixteen in  _ both  _ their countries had not meant shit to them. Yuri had been an innocent child who had needed to be protected, and Jean had been a nasty predator, or some shit. It had taken a very public, and very heartfelt scene at the Cup of China that season to stop the rumour mill.

Then the Yuri Angels had taken Jean under their protection, and in a matter of weeks anyone claiming Jean was anything but a perfect gentleman had been bullied off any social platform. His fans were scary, but also terribly efficient when they wanted to be.

They were defending them both, he had seen it in the brief foray on twitter he had allowed himself, but without any official comment from either Jean or him, they were working with speculations, just like everyone else. Yuri itched to release the Yuri Angel hounds on Yukiko and the bitch’s supporters, but he needed to talk to Jean first, it was something they needed to do together.

Three years ago Yuri wouldn’t have given a single fuck if Jean agreed or not, but three years ago he had not loved the fuck out of him, through and through. He would have not been ready to give a limb for him. Three years ago Yuri was not dreaming of marrying the idiot, and wondering which surname to put first when they hyphenate. 

Leroy-Plisetsky did sound better than Plisetsky-Leroy, but even as he thought about it, there was a clench of fear in the pit of his stomach. Because what if something  _ had  _ happened to Jean? What if this future was no longer possible? What if Jean had been snatched away from him, like everything eventually did? 

What if he never saw him again?

He was being a moron, but fear was a living thing inside him. And it roared.

 

The clinking of dishes woke Jean up, and he jumped up to a sitting position, looking around himself and realising he was once again in his bed. He was wearing only a pair of boxers, but he didn’t care. He scrambled out of his bed and strode towards the sound, praying, hoping, it had all been a bad dream, and it was Yuri who was fumbling around the kitchen. He turned the corner, and looked at the open kitchen doorway.

It was not Yuri.

Jean felt the air leave his lungs, and he staggered towards the wall. She did not see him, but he could not mistake the black bob, tucked behind her ears while she moved around the kitchen. She was still here. Which meant he had not imagined the pancakes, or passing out in the shower. Yukiko had drugged him. 

He moved before he even finished the thought. This woman was dangerous. And he needed to get the hell out of there. Jean had almost made a beeline for the front door before he realised he was only wearing his underwear. As silently as he could he walked back into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. He blindly grabbed inside, only to grasp something sequined. He looked inside, and saw his wardrobe was full of dresses, blouses, skirts. Women’s clothing.

Yukiko’s clothes.

He opened Yuri’s wardrobe and saw it overflowing with more of her clothing. Jean’s was tucked into a couple of drawers, squished between the impossible amount of clothes the woman owned. His captor. 

Quickly remembering what he was trying to do in the first place, Jean pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, rummaging through the closets until he found a pair of trainers he used for the gym. A jacket was next, because it was winter outside.  He could not see his phone, or his wallet, or any of his personal effects, but it didn’t matter at the moment.

He needed to get out of this apartment. Now.

Jean had just opened the door to walk into the corridor when Yukiko appeared in front of him, a beaming smile on her lips.

“JJ, you’re up!” she told him happily, eyes taking in his appearance “Are you going somewhere?” she asked him with a dulcet voice, and Jean swallowed.

“Jogging” he blurted out, and her smile soured.

“You can’t go out in this weather, you’ll catch a cold.” she told him sternly “And we can’t get you sick, now can we?” 

He wanted to argue, but her eyes looked dangerous, so he pulled his lips in what he hoped looked like a smile and said

“Of course, you’re right.”

Her smile curled back on her face, and she walked towards him, unzipping his jacket. Jean felt his heart beat a mile a minute as fear gripped him tight. Her fingers were too close to him, and he wanted to move away from her, but he needed to cooperate, he already knew she was not above drugging him. 

He soldiered through it, allowing her to take his jacket off, and put it back in the closet whence he had taken it. It was uncanny how at ease she seemed in his apartment, almost as if it had been her and not Yuri living there for nearly a year. 

Yuri. 

The thought of his boyfriend sent a stab of worry through his chest. Was he alright? Was he worried? Had Yukiko done something to him too? He didn’t even know what day it was. For all that he knew the Russian Nationals could have very well been over. 

Something must have shown on his face, because Yukiko suddenly stopped, looking at him with a puzzled expression.

“Something on your mind, JJ?” she asked softly, almost tenderly. Jean repressed another shudder.

“It’s nothing.” he told her, reluctant to even mention Yuri. But he was not fooling her.

“It must obviously be something. Tell me.” she demanded, and her eyes were once again looking like two endless pits ready to swallow him whole and never let him see the light of day again.

“I was wondering about the Russian Nationals.” he told her, a half truth.

“What about them?” she asked, with a bemused smile.

“Do you.. Do you know how they went?” he asked, innocently enough, or so he hoped. 

Her mouth twisted in a grimace.

“Plisetsky won.” she all but spat, Yuri’s surname sounding like a curse word. She must have read some emotion in his eyes because she added  “I don’t know why you care about that horrible person. He’s so hateful. I can’t believe anyone stands him.” she flailed her hands as she spoke “He even got a boyfriend! I always thought that Kazakh skater was going to date Mila Babicheva.”

“What?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“Plisetsky and Altin have been together for ages, I thought you knew.” she said, genuine confusion on her face “Everyone knows that.”

Jean looked at her, blinking in a mixture of wonder and disbelief. Because there were many things that were hard to grasp in this whole situation, but the notion of Yuri dating  _ his best friend  _ was so beyond preposterous that Jean barely stopped himself from laughing out loud.

“I know.” Yukiko said, clearly misreading his reaction “I can hardly believe it myself.” then fetching  _ Jean’s  _ phone from her pocket she said “Look. This was taken just yesterday!” she shoved the screen in his face, and it was a photo of Yuri, gold medal, around his neck, flower crown on his head. 

And kissing an unmistakeable Otabek Altin.

What the fuck?

 

Nathalie was not okay. They were flying above the Pacific, long hours away from Vancouver, but Jean’s mother appeared to have reached the end of her wits. She was clasping the armrests in a vice like grip, and her jaw was squared painfully tight. Her eyes were closed, but the silent tears streaming down her cheeks were unmistakeable. 

Yuri didn’t know what to do. He was not good at comforting people. He could snarl, yell, kick people into the right mindset. But comforting had never been his forte. And yet he couldn’t just look and do nothing. It was wrong. He cared about his coach. And not just because she was Jean’s mother, or because she was a good coach and an even better choreographer. He liked her. She was a nice lady, warm and good. She had always made him feel at home. Nathalie was the closest thing he had to a mother. And he couldn’t just let her cry without at least trying to comfort her.

“Nathalie.” he called, keeping his voice quiet. She didn’t react, and he gingerly touched her forearm “I’m… I’m sorry, I wish there was something I could do…”

She suddenly exhaled loudly, opening her eyes and looking at him with tear-stained cheeks.

“Yuri, this is not your fault.” she said softly “I know you’re as worried as I am.”

“It’s frustrating.” he blurted “Fucking frustrating.”

Nathalie didn’t even blink at the curse, and it was a testament of how off she was. She just nodded, sagging her head, and looking down at her knees. Yuri was not a touchy feely person, but in that moment he felt the overwhelming need to embrace her. So in a jagged movement he threw his arms around her, and wrapped her in the tightest hug he could. Nathalie yelped in surprise but a second later her own arms were curling around him, and she hugged him back.

He didn’t know what awaited them back in Canada, the only thing he could do was hope. And cling to it as hard as he was clinging to Jean’s mother.

 

Jean opened his eyes and there was a harsh light hitting his pupils. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the now familiar headache rear back. It was a pounding sensation, not as strong as it had been before, but strong enough. He wanted to open his eyes again, but when he lifted his eyelids a sliver, the light was too blinding, too painful. And it only made his headache worse.

He swam in the liminal space between wakefulness and sleep for a long while, every now and then hearing sounds that were quite unfamiliar, but whenever he tried to focus on them the pain inside his skull grew stronger, dulling everything in rushes of white noise. A few more times he tried to open his eyes, but on his fifth attempt, or was it the sixth, his head started pounding so painfully he squeezed his eyes as shut as he could, praying for sleep to take over him.

It did not come with ease. And only when the echo of a familiar voice resounded in his ears, did he managed to drift off into slumber.

 

The moment they landed in Vancouver, Nathalie tried once again to call everyone. Yuri didn’t even have to ask, her pained expression was eloquent enough. The next call she made was the police. They were not back in Montreal, but they were on Canadian soil. 

He knew the polite thing to do would be to stay by Nathalie’s side while she explained to the officer on the phone what happened, but there was a restlessness inside him that made him pace around the airport, thoughts running in concentric circles of worry, anger, memories and the never ending frustration of being stuck there, still so fucking far away from Jean. Unable to do anything but self combust. 

Calling Beka would probably be a wise choice, but he couldn’t bring himself to burden his best friend with more of his frustration. He was shouldering enough as it was. The worries of the whole skating world over this situation have somehow ended up being channelled to him, since Yuri and Jean had not made themselves present online in days. Beka had texted him a couple of times since their phone call in Vladivostok, updating him on anything relevant.

The only good news he had heard was that Isabella had publicly accused Yukiko of being a fraud. She told the press Jean and her had been on vacation when the alleged marriage had taken place, and that she was positive Jean had not eloped with another woman during that week.

Yuri had never liked Jean’s ex, and it was more than just jealousy, he plain couldn’t stand her haughty attitude. But for once he wanted to fucking hug her. 

 

The sun was setting in the winter sky. It was early still, and Jean was on tenterhooks, but he kept smiling at the woman sitting on the sofa next to him. He was reading an old issue of a skating magazine, or at least pretending to. He would turn the pages every now and then, while his mind was miles away from the articles printed on the glossy paper. 

Jean was plotting his escape.

He had been the picture of politeness the past day, doing everything Yukiko demanded of him, and smiling so much his facial muscles were starting to ache. But he needed to be smart about it. In the small moments when she left him alone he had managed to hide a winter jacket under her coat on the rack in the corridor, ready a pair of trainers so all he had to do was slip them on, and testing the door which was thankfully unlocked. After that, all he could do was wait for the perfect opportunity. 

In all truth he hoped to retrieve his phone too, but he didn’t need it to break free.

Yukiko was reading something on it, and she appeared to be in no hurry to move. Her slippers were off her feet, and she was curled comfortably on the sofa. He turned another page, contemplating if he could execute his plan now.

His heart beat frantically against his ribcage. Slowly he closed the magazine, setting on the sofa cushion, and he got to his feet.

Yukiko lifted her head from the phone, giving him a puzzled look, and he flashed her a smile.

“I need to use the bathroom.” he said, and she nodded, getting back to the phone in her hands. 

He only had a couple of minutes, and it was his only shot. 

Leisurely he walked out of the living room and made his way to the bathroom. He opened the door, switched the light on, closed the door, and shucking off his slippers he strode barefoot towards the front door. His heart threatened to jump out of his chest, and his fingers shook as he slipped his trainers, glancing towards the living room, and hoping she was not going to appear. Praying she wouldn’t.

He nearly dropped her coat when he reached for his jacket, and his heart stopped as he clutched the fabric. He didn’t know if he had made noise. Hands shaking more than ever he replaced the coat and grabbed his jacket, before gripping the doorknob and turning.

It didn’t budge. Fuck.

He was ready to scream in frustration, but something eerily resembling Yuri’s voice reminded him to get his shit together. She had merely locked the door. He opened the small cabinet where he kept the keys, and looked for the front door one. 

It was there.

He exhaled in relief as his fingers closed around it. And then he was pushing it in the lock, and turning. Jean didn’t realise how loud the sound was until he heard the quick sound of footsteps as Yukiko ran towards him. In a flash of panic he yanked the door open, and ran out. He sprinted down the stairs, without glancing back. Yukiko probably followed him, but he knew he was fast. He was an athlete, he ran every morning. He jumped more than several stairs on his way to the ground floor, but adrenaline pumped through his veins, and he ran ran ran. 

Suddenly he was on the ground floor and there was only the front door of their tenement between him and freedom.

He heard the sound of Yukiko huffing and puffing as she tried to sprint down the stairs, but Jean trudged forwards, yanking the door open. 

And taking a step out.

 

The plane landed in Montreal, and Yuri had never been so fucking happy and at the same time so filled with dread. Nathalie ‘s expression mirrored his own as they made their way towards the luggage claim. There was a strange feeling of anticipation coursing through him, and despite knowing their presence in Montreal would not change the fact Jean, his father and his siblings were missing, Yuri could not help feeling like now he could at least  _ do  _ something. 

It was a silly way of reasoning, because why would Yuri be any better than the police at finding Jean? But irrational as it was, Yuri let it fuel his tired and jet lagged limbs as he grabbed his luggage and marched out of the airport.

He knew what it was that he was feeling, and he knew it was stupid.

But Yuri could not help feeling hope.

At last.

 

The light was blinding, a sharp glare against his eyes, but Jean refused to close them. The pain in his head was making its way back to the forefront of his sensations, but he stubbornly kept his eyes open. A heartbeat, two. The light was still strong, but it was less cutting, softer as his vision began to focus. Another heartbeat, one more. The white noise in his ears began to ebb. And bit by bit he became aware of the sounds surrounding him.

There was an odd beeping sound coming from his left. He felt his eyebrows furrow in a frown, and it made him aware of the rest of his body. There was a soreness in his limbs that reminded him of mornings when he had overslept. It took him another moment to realise he  _ was  _ in fact lying down. There was a pillow under his head and sheets over his body. 

He blinked again, trying to rid his eyes of the blurriness which still lingered in his vision, and the room around him began to come into focus. 

The ceiling was grey. A light grey which grew darker as his eyes followed it to the corners where the white light, not blinding anymore, but dim and soft, could not reach. He turned his head to his right, looking at a nondescript wall he did not recognise. But more interesting than the wall were the low barriers on his bed which on the other hand did look somewhat familiar.

He had seen them before. But where?

Jean frowned, confused, while his mind slowly climbed back into wakefulness. There was still some blurriness in his vision, and he wanted to rub his eyes. He lifted his right hand to his eyes. But when he tried to move the left one he found it trapped. In a fast motion that left him with a sudden dizziness, Jean turned his head to the left, trying to see  _ why  _ he could not move his left hand. 

There was something strong gripping it. And when Jean’s vision stopped spinning he saw it was a hand. Attached to an arm. Attached to a shoulder. Which led his eyes to a familiar blond head which was currently looking at him as if Jean was a ghost, green eyes impossibly wide, and mouth agape.

He barely managed to connect the thought that this was Yuri before the latter jumped to his feet

“You fucking moron!” he shouted, flinging himself across him in the tightest, fiercest, most painful embrace Jean had ever experienced.

He did not know what was happening, but his arms curled around Yuri’s back on reflex, embracing him back, and holding him for what looked like forever. It was only when he heard the unmistakeable sound of Yuri sniffing that Jean realised there was something terribly wrong. Because he was in a hospital bed, and Yuri was  _ crying. _

“Yuri.” he said, his voice hoarse and barely grating its way out of his throat. But Yuri kept crying, and Jean was starting to get worried. His mind was clearing and there was a strange array of memories that did not quite make sense, and it did nothing to clue him in as to why he was in a hospital of all places. 

The fucking idiot was awake, and Yuri could not stop his tears from falling. He was pathetic, but he didn’t give a fuck. After a whole week of sitting by Jean’s side and waiting for the moron to wake up, he didn’t care if he sobbed like fucking Katsudon. Jean was awake, he was awake, he was awake.

He could hear him call his name, struggling to speak, but it was hard to let him go. It was so hard. Because he had spent seven days sitting on that fucking uncomfortable chair and waiting for Jean to open his stupid blue eyes and flash him his moronic grin. He had not been ready to start thinking he was  _ not  _ going to ever see any of those, or hear his voice. He had  _ not. _

“You fucking moron.” he said again, into the fabric of the hospital gown Jean was wearing “Don’t you dare do this again. Ever.” his voice cracked but he didn’t care. 

Jean was awake. He was awake. And Yuri didn’t give a single fuck about anything else. He embraced him with all the emotions he had repressed pouring out of him. The worry, the fear, the helplessness, it all streamed out of his eyes and moistened the stupid generic hospital gown Jean was wearing. 

It seemed like an eternity before his sobs began to subside, and he slowly lifted his head to look at the pale face of his boyfriend. Jean was gazing back with a mixture of worry and confusion. And for all that it was not the expression he wanted to see it was better than the endless slumber he had been in for the past week.

Only it had not been slumber, but something far more permanent than that. Something only Jean himself had been able to wake from. Yuri felt tears threaten to fall again, but Jean’s voice, cracking like dry soil pulled him out of his funk.

“What happened?” he asked, and Yuri sighed, easing him out of the embrace, and sitting back on the goddamned chair he had been rooted to for the past week. His hands did not leave Jean’s, fingers tangling with his, and squeezing tightly. 

“You fell on the ice.” he replied flatly, trying to keep his voice from wavering “And cracked your skull open.” Yuri tried desperately not to remember the sight. And failed spectacularly. Because the image of Jean lying limply on the ice while crimson pooled around his head was burned into his retina. Yuri crawling on his knees towards the unmoving for of his boyfriend who had been grinning a moment before, lifting him up in a nearly proper lift. 

Yuri swallowed, trying to erase that image, trying to focus on the present Jean, who was awake, and moving and blinking in confusion. A deep frown was forming on his forehead.

“The last thing I remember is… our tenement door?” he said looking at him in puzzlement “I was running out of the door…” 

Yuri saw him suddenly pale, his eyes growing wide, and the heart monitor starting to beep frantically.

“Jean?” he said with an edge of panic in his voice “I’ll...I’ll call a doctor!” 

He got up to his feet, but Jean’s hands closed around his and he looked at him in sheer terror.

“What happened to Yukiko?” he asked with a wild look, and Yuri frowned, shaking his head in bewilderment.

“Victor’s and Katsudon’s daughter?” Yuri asked, bemused. What the fuck? 

Jean shook his head. 

“No, the other Yukiko.” he insisted, giving him a wild look that slammed into him with a riptide of fear and confusion brimming in Jean’s eyes.

“What other Yukiko?” Yuri asked, not understanding what the fuck was going on, but growing worried at the sight of panic starting to emerge in the flaring of his nostrils, and the vice like grip of his hands.

“The one who came at the rink!” Jean told him with urgency “The… the girl who sold her story to the press! She..she.. Yuri she drugged me… I could not leave!” he was babbling incoherently, and Yuri looked at him, worry knotting his stomach “What happened to her?”

His eyes were wide as saucers, and Yuri could physically feel the fear rippling inside Jean, but his words made no fucking sense. He kept repeating his question, pleading Yuri to tell him where this fucking  _ Yukiko  _ was, and he couldn’t help it, he snapped.

“There is no other fucking Yukiko!” he all but shouted at last, effectively interrupting Jean in his rant.

“There… there isn’t?” Jean stuttered, looking at him with his blue eyes impossibly wide.

“No Jean, there isn’t.” he said, voice still trembling, but struggling to keep it softer “You fell on the rink, and got a really bad concussion. You’ve been out for a week.  _ That’s  _ what happened” then more quietly “It was all my fault.”

“Your fault?” Jean inquired, bemused.

“I made you lift me.” he said gravely “if I hadn’t fucking mocked you… It’s my fault, Jean.” he could feel tears starting to drip down his cheeks again “I’m sorry, Jean. I’m a fucking moron, I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t stop them, he couldn’t. Because the guilt that had been simmering on the edge of his consciousness finally made its way to the forefront of his mind. It was about to consume him, when Jean spoke again

“Russian Nationals…” 

What? 

Jean had almost died, because of Yuri, and the moron wanted to know about Nationals? What the fuck was wrong with him? 

“I’m fucking skipping them!” he said “You’re more important than skating. Even your fucking parents did not protest when I told them I was cutting my season short.”

Jean was silent for the longest moment, hands gripping Yuri’s tightly.

“So… it was all a dream?” he asked softly “All of that, it was a dream?” 

Yuri shrugged, not really knowing what to say. And then he noticed the tears streaming down Jean’s face, and he had no idea what to do. He cupped his head, looking at him, completely at loss. His own guilt did not matter, not when Jean needed him. Even though he had no idea what to do. 

He was contemplating whether to speak or not when all of a sudden Jean’s face broke into grin and he laughed wetly.

“It was a dream!” he exclaimed, pulling Yuri in an embrace “It was a dream!”

He kissed him, chapped lips wet with tears, and Yuri was confused, unmoored in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. But at the same time it was perfect. It was perfect. Because Jean was awake,  _ alive _ , and everything could be fixed later. Everything.

The only thing that mattered was that Jean was here, embracing him tightly and laughing, kissing him, crying. 

He was alive.

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks to [ImWithEnjolras](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ImWithEnjolras/works) for enabling my madness! This fic was the result of a very productive day. 
> 
> I borrowed Yukiko's name from this amazing Victuuri fic [Yours or Mine?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8683636/chapters/19906924).  
> The Santorini vacation was inspired by this amazing [fan art](https://twitter.com/Snppd_C/status/847249860394745860/photo/1) by [@Snppd_C](https://twitter.com/Snppd_C).


End file.
